


when there's nowhere else to run

by asfroste



Series: a kingdom, or this [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 1988 Book Fest, Alternate Universe - Sexual Slavery, Captive Prince - AU, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-21 18:19:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12463266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asfroste/pseuds/asfroste
Summary: “Perhaps,” said Patrick, sneering a little, but he was still standing there, his eyes cool as they slid over Jonny’s body. Jonny refused to let it affect him, kneeling as proudly as he could, head tilted back in defiance.With his eyes lingering somewhere around Jonny’s neck, Patrick finally spoke: “He does please me. To some extent. Have him prepared and brought to my quarters.”And then he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Jonny with, presumably, a new owner: Patrick, Crown Prince of the country that hated Jonny the most.[A Captive Prince AU that has maybe 5% plot, 10% feelings, and 90% porn.]





	when there's nowhere else to run

**Author's Note:**

> tremendous thanks to gasmsinc and nuuclears for putting on the 1988 bookfest!
> 
> for anyone who's read Captive Prince, this has none of the darker elements, but does borrow heavily from the language and general atmosphere. see end notes for more details on that! I don't want to spoil Captive Prince for anyone, but it's absolutely worth reading. I hope this stands alone well enough. the mildly dubious consent tag is mostly because of slave/master consent dynamics. but everyone's into everything, whether or not they want to admit it.
> 
> title from the killers' song all these things that I've done, because I couldn't think of anything else.

It had been a simple hunt, the kind Jonny had been going on since he was old enough to ride a horse and carry a spear at the same time.

If only Jonny hadn’t gone so far pursuing that deer. If only he hadn’t left his common sense behind that day. If only there hadn’t been twelve raiders. Six, Jonny could have handled, he was sure. But his limbs had grown heavy, his steps weary, after only four, giving the rest the chance to overwhelm him. Jonny had trained for combat all his life; he should have dispatched four hill raiders with ease.

They must have drugged him, he realized suddenly, remembering. They had all been wearing coverings over their faces—it would have been easy to light a stick of incense, the kind meant to blur the senses and dull the mind. Jonny had been too busy fighting to notice.

If only he had noticed. 

Instead, he had awoken some indeterminate amount of time later to find himself bound and gagged in the back of a wagon, with the gold collar and cuffs of a slave locked into place around his neck and wrists. Struggle had proven fruitless; he was as thoroughly caught as a bird in a snare, and still dizzy from whatever they had dosed him with. It was then that the first flutterings of panic had started to set in. 

*

It only took a short amount of time to ascertain that these barbarous hill raiders had no idea who Jonny really was. They frequently boasted about the price such a clearly well-bred young man would fetch in the auction; they assumed he was some nobleman’s cast off son, rich enough to afford his horse and weapons but not enough for his absence to be noted. Jonny knew there were other captives, but that he was strong and intimidating enough that he warranted his own wagon and heavier set of restraints. The raiders were crude, yes, but not stupid; they knew better than to give Jonny even one chance at escape. 

That was fine. Jonny could wait.

*

It did not take the raiders and their captives long to reach their destination. Jonny recognized it as soon as he got a good look, though he had never been here before himself. His heart began to race. It had been years, Jonny reasoned, trying to let logic dictate rather than fear. Jonny was older now and there was little chance anyone else who had participated back then would be here now. No one would recognize his face.

Indeed, as the slavers hurried their captives through the halls of the large, opulent palace, no one even gave them a second glance. Jonny could see courtiers idling everywhere, drinking and entertaining themselves with their pets; abruptly, his fear was subsumed by disgust. He had always been unable to fully believe in the rumors that claimed this place was nothing more than a den of iniquity—surely they had to do something productive—but there was nothing productive about this atmosphere of lazy revelry. It was the middle of the day, for god’s sake. 

Jonny looked with disdain at the flamboyance of the court as they passed through it. He preferred the warm, soft colors of his family’s royal home over this disparate, shallow attempt at luxury. They stopped in the center of a large, airy hall, surrounded by courtiers dressed in their country’s idea of high fashion: shiny, patterned fabrics with laces done up tight to neck and wrists and ankles. Jonny preferred the loose drapery of his home country’s garments.

The slavers pushed Jonny to his knees, not gently. His chains rattled, the gold collar pressing tight to his throat for an instant. It was a reminder that Jonny’s preferences did not matter anymore. 

He listened with half an ear as the slavers started to call for attention. To the people in this room, he was just another slave up for sale. He ignored the catcalls as the auction began and formulated a plan. Go along with whoever purchased him. Wait for an opportunity. Take it. Find a way home.

The crowd was full of those whom Jonny considered typical for this country—soft, spoiled nondescript nobles wrapped in fine, tightly-tied clothes, endlessly downing drinks and delicacies, engrossed in their scantily-dressed pets. He let his eyes wander, feeling contemptuous despite the restraints binding his wrists and chest, thinking how much more favorable he had found his own pleasure slaves back home, before his attention finally caught and held on a young man in the back of the room. He was startlingly attractive, with blond hair and blue eyes that stood out against the dark coloring of his clothing. He was leaning casually against a column, half in shadow, as if he were barely interested in the proceedings.

And, Jonny noted with a small jolt, he was staring right back at Jonny. The young man’s expression was so blank that Jonny couldn’t read it at all, but there was no denying the unwavering intensity of his gaze. Jonny held his breath, thinking he was about to be discovered, but the man’s eyes darted away after a moment. Jonny’s earlier prediction remained true: there was no way anyone in this current generation would recognize him. He let himself relax a little.

Finally it was his turn.

Jonny closed his eyes as the bidding on him started, savoring only slightly the image of the man he’d seen. Everything about his outward appearance would have aroused Jonny; had he not been in this situation and instead in his own country, he would have gently rearranged things so that this man could be brought to him. 

It quickly became clear from the way the bidders’ voices and the price rose in tandem that Jonny was the prize of this slave auction, and everyone thought themselves worthy of it.

Jonny was hoping only in the barest sense for an owner willing to pander to Jonny’s admittedly dominant tendencies. He figured that no one would look at him and see a slave willing to be broken, or a slave willing to be bent over. Instead, with his musculature and height, Jonny figured he would be snatched up either by someone looking for a bodyguard or someone looking to be bent over. This was a place of twisted desires; Jonny could easily see these soft, cosseted nobles getting off on ordering a slave to fuck them, playing at being pets themselves when really they held all the power. It didn’t matter much, really. Jonny was sure he could overpower and/or outsmart either type of owner. 

Jonny was jerked rudely from his thoughts by a rough tug at his chains. He opened his eyes to glare at the slaver responsible, punishment be damned, only to realize the hall had gone almost completely silent. The slaver who currently held the ends of Jonny’s chains was bowing at the waist, eyes lowered modestly to the floor.

“Your Highness,” the slaver said, and Jonny turned to see whom he was talking to.

“What is his name?” asked the young man Jonny had been staring at, who could only be Patrick, Crown Prince of this country that so hated Jonny. 

The slavers consulted amongst themselves before answering. Jonny could tell from the muted, tense atmosphere of the room that no one had expected the attention of the Prince. 

“If it should please Your Highness, call him Jonny,” they said at last.

Jonny reared back at that, his stomach clenching, only to brought short by the truncated chains at his neck. Murmurs arose from the court. They all knew the familiarity of the nickname, the comparison to the winner of the Unity Games so long ago, but of course these pretentious courtiers had no idea who he really was. Jonny was his private nickname, used only by his family and those in his immediate circle; to everyone else, he was Prince Jonathan. Jonny didn’t have to imagine how these people would react if they knew he really was Jonathan, Heir and Prince of their most hated rival.

“Jonny,” said Patrick, a strange note in his voice. “His name is Jonny?” He shook his head suddenly, regaining composure. “How is that supposed to please me?”

The slavers shifted uneasily. “Perhaps it was in poor taste, Your Highness.”

“Perhaps,” said Patrick, sneering a little, but he was still standing there, his eyes cool as they slid over Jonny’s body. Jonny refused to let it affect him, kneeling as proudly as he could, head tilted back in defiance.

With his eyes lingering somewhere around Jonny’s neck, Patrick finally spoke: “He does please me. To some extent. Have him prepared and brought to my quarters.” 

And then he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Jonny with, presumably, a new owner: Patrick, Crown Prince of the country that hated Jonny the most. 

The slavers gibbered, trying to decide what to do. The audience became restless. Jonny listened with purpose as the members of the audience put their heads together and gossiped, their words bubbling over like a fountain. Jonny heard words like ‘tease’ and ‘first time’ and ‘never like this’ thrown about, and wondered. But mostly his attention was on Patrick, who was walking away with a strut in his step like he had meant to this all along. 

Patrick had offered no price—yet he had the indisputable authority in the room. He had holdings that made him wealthy beyond belief—yet he had offered no price. It was a conundrum worthy of closing the slave auction. 

*

Jonny passed between hands for a while, dragged along by his chains as the slavers dithered but eventually had to let him go and the palace staff twittered in agitation over what to do with him. Eventually he was unceremoniously deposited in a small room with a heavy door, the only furniture in the room a bed, low to the ground but surprisingly comfortable. He was left to idle there for several hours, glad of the chance to rest while also bored almost beyond the telling. He could hear a great deal of hustle and bustle in the hallway and became aware several times of faces peering in at him, shock and confusion evident on their features. If he was to be treated like an exhibition for the gawking then, so be it. 

Unfortunately, his audience seemed to believe that being captive rendered one deaf and dumb, however, based on the sheer number of people who stood outside the door to his cell and loudly questioned what, exactly, Patrick planned to do with such a meaty specimen; or they speculated, almost idly, on whether or not Patrick’s frigid, chaste ass was ready to be mounted by such a bull of a man; or they tittered annoyingly at the glares Jonny half-heartedly sent at them when they began trying to gauge the size of his cock. Didn’t these people have anything better to do?

Still, it was an opportunity to collect information on his new owner. Jonny’s image of Patrick grew and solidified with each drop of gossip about his supposed indiscretions—everything from fights over pittance to exposing himself in public. Nothing of what Jonny had seen or heard of Patrick—or this ridiculous country—so far did anything to dispel the idea of Patrick as a selfish, conceited pretty boy, happy to waste his days and nights with aimless tasks and drink himself insensate at every opportunity. 

All his life, Jonny had been told that the people of Patrick’s country were the very opposite of Jonny’s people. They were a kingdom of extravagance and waste, content to amuse themselves with perversions of sex and politics, nothing like the stalwart honor and honesty that Jonny’s kingdom prided themselves on. Patrick’s nation was one of frippery and frill, concerned only with its own luxury; Jonny’s was serious and hard-working, ready for pleasure only after the day’s work had been done, and done well. And, Jonny’s people boasted quietly to themselves, they did their pleasure-making extremely well, better than that country of pets and toys. 

Finally, the steady trickle of nosy courtiers died off. Jonny laid back on the bench, closing his eyes. He had very carefully noted as many entrances and exits of the palace as he could; he could use this time to plan his escape route, for when the chance arose.

He was distracted, however, think of Patrick’s manner at the slave auction. How arrogant, how spoiled was he, to think he could waltz in and take whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted? The reactions of the crowd and the servants in the palace only made sense if Patrick were as unpredictable as only those with no regard for others could afford to be. Jonny shifted restlessly, thinking of Patrick leaning alone against that column, the proud line of his back as he walked away. He reminded himself that he was here as a prisoner only, a captured parody of his own true self, and that Patrick was currently his number one opposition to escape. 

*

Jonny was awakened some time later by the rough scrape of the door opening. Two men entered, chained Jonny’s wrists and collar once again, and tugged him down the hall like some sort of recalcitrant pony. Jonny resisted the urge to dig in his heels. To distract himself, he looked around, trying to gauge the time. Glances out the high windows showed a night sky splattered with stars. Jonny guessed it was between one and three in the morning—far too late for anything but—Jonny cut himself off at the thought, a growing sense of foreboding twisting through him as the guards pushed and prodded him deeper and deeper into the palace. There could be only one person who would and could summon Jonny this late at night, and for only one very likely reason. 

Dread filled Jonny as they marched through the quiet halls. What did Patrick expect of him? 

The answer was still unclear as the guards ushered Jonny into what was clearly Patrick’s innermost bedchamber. It was spacious and tidy, so unlike the cramped room Jonny had spent the day in. 

Patrick himself was sprawled comfortably on a bench, reading. There was a cup of what Jonny presumed was wine next to him, and a large tureen resting on a table. He looked up when the guards pushed Jonny into the room and blinked, almost startled.

“Your new slave, Your Highness,” the guard said, unnecessarily, and Jonny could hear the leer in his voice. Patrick’s tongue slid out across his lower lip, once, before his face went totally blank. He set his book down and stood, wavering only a little. Jonny took him to be quite drunk.

“Yes,” Patrick said, and his words had a trace of a lisp to them. “Thank you. You may…go. Now.”

The guards made some sign of obeisance and turned to leave, closing the door firmly behind them. The door was thick, but not thick enough to block out the hoots of laughter as they walked away. Jonny heard one of them make a crack about Patrick’s gait tomorrow and resolutely turned his attention to Patrick—who, to his surprise, was glaring off into the middle distance, blushing slightly. Silence fell as the footsteps of the guards faded away. 

“Did you forget you sent for me?” Jonny asked, nodding at the wine on the table.

Patrick’s eyes slid over to Jonny, taking him in. His half-lidded gaze was inscrutable. Nothing about him did anything to dissuade Jonny’s earlier impression—fueled by the gossip of his afternoon visitors—of an spoiled, self-indulgent prince who cared for nothing but his own pleasure.

“Why would I bother to remember something so insignificant?” Patrick said at last, crossing his arms and leaning back on the table. “I knew I would get what I wanted.”

The flickering light cast shadows across Patrick’s face and body that made him look like a snake, coiled to spring. Yet he was still well under Jonny’s height and weight, and well-inebriated, right now. Nothing about this situation made Jonny think it would be difficult to overpower Patrick, if it came to that, but Jonny was fully cognizant of his current slave status. If he could just endure whatever trial awaited him with Patrick, he could escape. He just had to ignore the light of Patrick’s eyes, the slight hint of muscle underneath his--Jonny shifted his weight, cutting off that train of thought. He focused on his potential escape. His arms were free, and he was pretty sure he knew the closest way out of the palace. 

“Why am I here?” Jonny asked, blunt. 

Patrick tilted his head, considering, his blond curls falling gently to the side. His smile was like the edge of a knife, glinting in the darkness. Despite himself, Jonny felt a trickle of arousal in his gut. He stamped it down as firmly as he could. He had a mission; no amount of waifish, blond-haired boy could sway him.

“You are here for my pleasure,” said Patrick, unraveling himself and stepping closer. “You exist for nothing else except to please me, the Crown Prince of this land, the sole heir in waiting.” The cadence of his steps was as measured as his tone. He stopped just in front of Jonny, so close Jonny could feel the heat off his skin and see the minute traces of a dimple in his cheek. “Is any of that unclear?” Patrick asked, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I can use smaller words if your barbarian brain can’t understand me.”

Jonny felt the blood thump in his veins with anger, once, twice, and spent no more than a second trying to control it. It was uncontrollable. This man was infuriating enough to warrant the strongest of reactions. Jonny’s hands were on Patrick’s hips almost without his permission. They were the perfect handholds to push Patrick back until he was between Jonny and the bedpost of Patrick’s bed. Patrick made no resistance, his hands coming up to grip Jonny’s slave-tunic. If anything, he looked smug, but underneath Jonny’s hands he was so tightly wound he was almost quivering. Jonny hesitated, and Patrick smirked, his mouth wet and red; Jonny wanted to destroy him.

Jonny pressed against Patrick’s body as close as he could, the difference in their heights pronounced, lining their hips up so Patrick could feel his cock—traitorously already on its way to hard, but then, anger had never been any reason for Jonny to soften—and he could feel Patrick’s, stirring underneath the fabric of his fine clothes. 

“Does this please you?” asked Jonny, pushing his thigh between Patrick’s legs and pulling up on Patrick’s hips at the same time. Patrick’s eyelids fluttered and his hands tightened in Jonny’s clothes, but other than that his face gave no sign he was affected. “Is this what you wanted?” Jonny continued, slowly rolling his hips so Patrick was riding his thigh. “A pet you can toss around, a slave you can have your way with?” He stopped moving and waited. Patrick’s cock was a hard line of heat against Jonny’s lower stomach. After a moment, Patrick opened his eyes to glare at Jonny, who stared impassively back. Patrick huffed through his nose and tried to wiggle his hips to get some friction; Jonny gripped them tighter, keeping Patrick still. 

“I order you—” Patrick started, but Jonny cut him off with a swift, hard thrust of his hips, and the words came out resembling a choked whimper. Jonny did it again, and Patrick squeezed his eyes shut, his mouth, plush and red and wet, opening and closing soundlessly. 

“I think,” Jonny said, punctuating it with another pass of his hips against Patrick’s. “You want someone to boss you around. You want someone—” and here he paused again, to slip one hand down to grip Patrick’s buttock, the other coming around to rub against Patrick’s cock—“to toss you around.”

Patrick shuddered hard, his head thunking back against the bedpost, and a wet spot formed underneath Jonny’s hand. He moved it, surprised. Patrick kept his eyes closed, two bright spots of red appearing in his cheeks. He let his hands drop to his sides as Jonny slid his thigh away. Patrick slumped down to his bed, limp and debauched, and abruptly Jonny was disgusted. Hadn’t he promised himself he wouldn’t let Patrick’s—he wouldn’t let himself be distracted? He looked to the window and saw that there were still at least a few hours of darkness left. His erection was already subsiding.

He looked back at Patrick, who was still sitting prone on the bed, head angled away. Without looking at him, Patrick waved a hand at the window. 

Jonny dipped his head once, in thanks, and turned to go. 

*

The guards caught Jonny at the edge of the city, trying to enter a door that turned out to be for a brothel.  
There was only one person who had known of Jonny’s attempt. How like Patrick, whom his own people described as a frigid tease, ready to turn on his suitors as soon as look at them, to try and seduce Jonny with not only his body but the promise of freedom, and then snatch it back as soon as it was convenient. 

Jonny should have known better than to trust the word of such a slippery, diabolical man; he should have known this country could never have turned out a prince who was anything other than treacherous. 

For the crime of attempting escape, Jonny was whipped on the cross, twenty strokes exactly. The indignation of it was almost as fierce as the pain, especially when Patrick had the audacity to show up and lurk at the edges of the room, white-faced and thin-lipped. But Jonny only had a glimpse before the hot lash of the whip dragged his attention away. 

In the days that followed, Jonny floated in a haze. He felt rather than saw a physician come and attend to his back. He lay on his stomach in the cot of his room, dreaming of home and blond hair and plush lips, and always awoke with a pit of anger in his stomach, hardening further every day.

And yet, he now had memories to contend with—memories of Patrick hardening against his thigh, the lithe warmth of his body under Jonny’s hands, and, perhaps most importantly, his pliable lassitude after orgasm. Jonny wondered at it, and, after shoving aside the shiver of arousal, began to think.

All his life, Jonny had been told that the people of Patrick’s country were the very opposite of Jonny’s people. They were a kingdom of extravagance and waste, content to amuse themselves with perversions of sex and politics, nothing like the stalwart honor and honesty that Jonny’s kingdom prided themselves on. Patrick’s nation was one of frippery and frill, concerned only with its own luxury; Jonny’s was serious and hard-working, ready for pleasure only after the day’s work had been done, and done well. And, Jonny’s people boasted quietly to themselves, they did their pleasure-making extremely well, better than that country of pets and toys. 

Despite the rumors, the two countries had more or less cordial relations until Jonny was seventeen. It was the occasion for a Unity Games, hosted in Patrick’s country, and Jonny’s father had asked him to face the reigning champion in the most pivotal event: a game played on ice, with sticks and blades. Jonny had agreed; he knew he could win. 

And win he did. 

Little did he know it was the final straw on a teetering stack of complaints Patrick’s country had been waiting to lodge against Jonny’s. Suddenly they were cut off from previous trade routes, denied access to Patrick’s country’s ports, and essentially treated as pariahs when before they had coexisted as distant cousins, or reluctantly hospitable neighbors. Jonny was lauded as a hero for exposing the treachery of Patrick’s country; if they reacted that strongly to a single game, how could they be trusted in any other matter? 

In truth, Jonny had hated that his victory in the ice competition had been soured by the outburst of hostilities, that Patrick’s country had ruined Jonny’s triumph. It would have been the perfect achievement for him, winning for his country, and instead it was the event that almost launched war. No matter how many times Jonny was praised for his showing at the ice event, it was only a reminder that Jonny’s skill had put his country in danger.

His current predicament as Patrick’s slave only reminded him of that.

If Patrick wanted a slave to push him around, someone big enough to put him in his place, then Jonny could do that. Jonny could give him all the orgasms he desired, especially now that he knew what Patrick really wanted. All he had to do was put aside everything in his mind but Patrick’s pleasure and earn his trust enough to find his way home.

*

A week after Jonny’s back was declared “as close to good as it will get” by the physician, a red-bearded man with a thick, grumbling accent and a gentle touch, he was summoned once again to Patrick’s side. 

Jonny didn’t know what to expect when the attendants came and fetched him from his cell, tugging him along by the chains connecting his wrist-cuffs to the collar around his neck. He resisted the urge to yank at them, and was rewarded for his restraint by having them unclipped when they reached their destination: the warm, tiled walls of the palace baths.

The baths—which should have been crowded with lazy courtiers—were empty except for one person. 

Patrick rested indolently against the far wall, eyes clear and face blank. He was fully dressed but for his shoes. 

Jonny shook out his wrists and then his shoulders, cracking his neck slightly. “They trust me alone with you?” he said. The anger was there, a steady thrum in his blood. 

Patrick sneered a little. “You think I can’t handle myself against a barbarian?”

Jonny dragged his gaze over Patrick’s body; there was no question who would win in a fight. By the time he met Patrick’s eyes, there was color high in Patrick’s cheeks. Whatever expression was on Jonny’s face made Patrick narrow his eyes, color receding.

Patrick kicked off from the wall and walked over to Jonny until they were only inches apart. Their height difference was once again apparent with both of them in bare feet, the top of Patrick’s head barely coming up to Jonny’s eye line, but now Jonny couldn’t help but notice the way Patrick’s tightly-laced shirt stretched over the breadth of his shoulders, the way the fabric lay across Patrick’s chest before tapering down to his waist. The baths were much more brightly lit than Patrick’s room.

“Take off your clothes,” Patrick ordered. Keeping his eyes fixed on Patrick’s, Jonny obeyed, undoing the pins that held his simple slave’s garment together, allowing it to pool at his feet. This close, the slight flutter of Patrick’s lashes, as though he wanted to glance down but wouldn’t let himself, was unmistakable. Nudity did not make Jonny uncomfortable; his people were far less restrictive than Patrick’s in that sense.

Patrick turned around and held his arms out to the side. “Now mine,” he said.

Jonny obeyed. Patrick’s clothes were much more intricate than Jonny’s. It took a wastefully long time to unlace Patrick’s sleeves, revealing the delicate skin of his wrists bit by bit. Jonny next turned to the lacings on Patrick’s front, craning his head over Patrick’s shoulder to see. Carefully he tugged at the strings keeping the collar close to Patrick’s skin; his fingers brushed against Patrick’s throat, and Jonny felt it contract as Patrick swallowed. Jonny continued to tug at the laces holding Patrick’s shirt together, moving down Patrick’s chest. It was firmer under his hands than he would have suspected.

When the shirt was all the way undone, Jonny held it open so Patrick could slide his arms out. Underneath he was wearing only a sleeveless white tunic, looser now that it was not confined by the heavier overshirt. Patrick’s arms were thicker than his clothing indicated, his muscles well-defined but not bulky, and Jonny was suddenly thankful that Patrick was still facing away. He let his eyes wander appreciatively over them even as his hands tugged the hem of Patrick’s undershirt up, pulling it over Patrick’s head and arms and tossing it aside. 

Patrick was so compliant, so used to slaves dressing and undressing him that his body held no resistance, no hint of insolence or arrogance. Jonny hesitated, hands hovering at Patrick’s waist, eyes lowered so all he could see was the curve of Patrick’s neck. He could feel Patrick’s curls brushing against the side of his chin, and the warmth coming off of Patrick’s skin. He was suddenly very aware that he was naked, and that Patrick was as well-formed and fair a man as Jonny had ever liked; the two realizations did not leave Jonny unaffected. 

From this corner of his eye, Jonny could just see the clean line of his jaw, the strong jut of his chin—could just imagine what Patrick’s eyelashes might feel like against his cheeks.

“Have you suddenly developed a sense of modesty?” Patrick asked, inclining his head to the side, his gaze fixed on the far wall. 

Jonny rolled his eyes and placed his hands firmly on Patrick’s waist. “Is this all you called me here for?”

“Should I have another reason?”

Jonny tightened his fingers on Patrick’s waist, then slowly slid them around to Patrick’s front. He tucked them just inside the waistband above Patrick’s groin and left them there, relishing in Patrick’s sharp indrawn breath. 

“I thought I was here for your--” Jonny paused to run his mouth lightly along the milky skin of Patrick’s neck, then breathed the last word into the hollow beneath his ear “--pleasure.” Patrick exhaled shakily, and Jonny felt him tremble minutely in the circle of his arms.

Jonny pushed his hands further down Patrick’s pants, pulling the loosened laces free and skimming his thumbs along either side of Patrick’s cock, which swelled gratifyingly. Patrick tipped his head back against Jonny’s shoulder, his hands coming up to grip Jonny’s wrists, just above where the slave cuffs were. Jonny dug his fingers into the tops of Patrick’s thighs, pulling him further into Jonny’s body, letting Jonny’s hardened cock shove into the tightness of Patrick’s ass through his pants. Patrick arched against him, his mouth dropping open and his stomach muscles contracting suddenly. Jonny did it again, rocking Patrick’s ass back onto his cock, grinding them together with slow, sweet pressure. 

Patrick’s breath was fast now, with a hint of a whimper, and Jonny suddenly wanted to hear, more than anything, what Patrick’s voice would sound like while he was being fucked—would he whine and moan, loud like the drunk, spoiled prince he was, or would Jonny’s cock drive the voice from him, fucking nothing but air from his lungs?

“Is this what you want, sweetheart?” Jonny said into Patrick’s ear, voice rough, and finally brought his hand around to wrap around Patrick’s cock, enjoying the thick, blood-hot feel of it. Patrick jerked in shock, his fingers tightening around Jonny’s forearm, before suddenly wrenching himself away, stumbling slightly.

Jonny watched, bemused, as Patrick finally shucked his pants all the way off and stepped out of them. Fully naked, face flushed, golden curls ruffled, he was not unlike the athletically posed statues Jonny had seen in his mother’s gardens, smooth and perfectly formed. Jonny clenched his fists. Gods above, he was still so angry, but, with Patrick’s fair skin in front of him—he wanted, damn it all. He wanted this beautiful man who represented everything that currently held Jonny at its mercy. He wanted Patrick, the spoiled, disdainful heir to the throne, who went from ice to fire at a moment’s notice. Jonny hated him, for being the hand that held the key to Jonny’s freedom and a god-awful tease at that, but, more than anything else right now, Jonny wanted to bend him over and ruin him.

Apparently some of that must have come across in his expression, because Patrick glanced at his face and his eyes widened. He smirked slightly, regaining a little of his usual poise. He stepped backwards slowly, eyes fixed on Jonny, until he was entering the pool behind him. Jonny watched the water rise up his legs, his thighs, until it was just covering his groin. Patrick stopped walking and looked up at Jonny through his lashes then, his hands idly stirring the water beside him. 

“Well, barbarian?” Patrick said, arching one golden eyebrow, and before he knew it, Jonny was moving. He splashed into the pool and strode for Patrick, the water swirling around the power of his thighs. He seized Patrick by the waist and muscled him back against the lip of the bath. Patrick went, gasping a little, his hands coming up to grab at Jonny’s biceps, squeezing hard. The water made it easier to tuck his hands under Patrick’s thighs and lift, pulling his legs up and around Jonny’s middle, so that Patrick’s cock rubbed against the hard planes of Jonny’s stomach and Jonny’s was riding the smooth crease of Patrick’s ass. 

Jonny dug his fingers into Patrick’s cheeks, savoring the delightful handfuls they made, hard with muscle yet softly yielding, like they were made for this sort of fierce groping. He pushed his cock between them a few times, the water providing both ease of access and delicious friction. Jonny felt the snag of Patrick’s hole against the tip of his cock and choked a little, imagining forcing his cock into Patrick’s tight body with nothing but this heated water to guide its way in. Patrick moaned a bit and worked down harder against him, his nails digging into Jonny’s arms.

“What are you waiting for,” Patrick said, sounding breathless, and Jonny froze, looking at him in surprise. His head was tilted back, eyes closed and mouth open in pleasure. Pinned between Jonny and the marble edge of the bath, Patrick looked like a pet desperate for his master’s cock, not the swaggering, demanding prince he was meant to be. When Jonny didn’t immediately start moving again, Patrick opened his eyes, his tongue darting out to lick his lips. He looked at Jonny from under his lashes, his legs tightening around Jonny’s abdomen. 

“What?” Patrick said, his voice hard. “Isn’t that what you barbarians do? Stick your cock in whomever, whatever hole is there, ripe for the—“ Jonny put his hand over Patrick’s mouth, cutting him off. Patrick stared at him, eyes wide. His hands had moved to rest lightly on Jonny’s chest, and his cock was still hard against Jonny’s stomach.

“It isn’t worth my life,” Jonny said, maintaining eye contact, “to fuck the crown Prince bare with nothing but water to ease the way.” 

Patrick flushed bright red and twisted out from underneath Jonny’s hand, ducking his head in—embarrassment? Surely not. Jonny felt the slightest spark of fondness rise up within him and ruthlessly quashed it down. Patrick had already betrayed him once; Jonny could not afford to give him the leeway to do so again. He forced himself to recall the pain of the lash, the punishment he had endured because of Patrick. It fit so well with the stories he had heard, of Patrick the Prince seducing his way through the court before leaving his lovers out to dry. 

Jonny shook his head, disgusted with himself all over again, and at the same time, with Patrick. Abruptly unable to keep looking at him, Jonny deftly flipped Patrick around, pushing him flat on his front against the cool tile of the floor, keeping his hips elevated over the edge and his thighs spread around Jonny’s hips. Patrick let out a yelp of surprise, his hands coming down to slap at the wet floor. Jonny kept him there with one hand firm between his shoulder blades, and let the other snake down to tighten around Patrick’s cock. He rutted between Patrick’s cheeks, letting his cock grind against Patrick’s hole but never pushing inside. His thrusts, fast and short, pushed Patrick’s cock into the punishing circle of Jonny’s fingers. Patrick moaned, his eyes squeezed shut, and writhed as much as he was able, cheek pressed flat against the floor, hands scrabbling at the tile for some sort of purchase. 

Jonny watched him, feeling his release rise up, and told himself that he felt nothing but contempt for this desperate, cock-hungry prince, his current master, his enemy. As if he could hear Jonny’s thoughts, Patrick turned his head slightly, one opening until Jonny could just see the blue, looking at Jonny with—with—

Jonny closed his eyes and came. He spilled over Patrick’s ass and lower back, and the hot splash of it must have been enough to tip Patrick over as well, because he bucked his hips once into the slack grip of Jonny’s hand and followed, crying out. 

Jonny allowed himself to slump over Patrick’s back, resting his forehead on the back of Patrick’s neck, until his breathing evened out. Then he shoved himself away and hastily splashed water over Patrick’s back, washing away the evidence. Patrick stayed where he was, bent over the side of the pool, breathing unevenly. Eventually he straightened up, the water sluicing down his back, and waved a hand dismissively at Jonny without looking at him. 

Jonny bowed his head wordlessly and exited the pool. Outside the baths, the same attendants were waiting for him. They clipped the chains back onto his slave collar and cuffs, heedless of his nudity, and brought him back to his room. Jonny wondered if they knew what he and their Prince had just done, and then he wondered if he cared. The attendants removed the chains once Jonny was safely in his room, and locked the door behind them as they left. Jonny collapsed onto his mattress, falling almost immediately into sleep. He would need his rest if he ever wanted to get the best of Patrick and escape from this madhouse of a country.

**Author's Note:**

> I only just barely finished this, and it will most definitely have to be continued. I could really use some assistance on that front, even just for encouragement--so hit me up on tumblr (asfroste.tumblr.com) if you're interested! Or just leave a comment with any and all feedback! I will also probably post more snippets on tumblr as I try to hash out the rest of this. This could be a big one.
> 
> For anyone who's read Captive Prince and worried about what elements will appear, let me just give a bit of a blanket summary/reassurance: there is no Regent character. there's very little subplot (and arguably barely a prevailing plot as well). there will be no character deaths. there will be a lot more sex. Patrick is not as smart as Laurent. Jonny is not as buff as Damen. I did use Captive Prince as a fic prompt, so there are definitely similarities in language; if anyone would like further clarification, let me know and I'll do my best to provide it.
> 
> finally, if I didn't tag for something or warn for it appropriately, please let me know and I will remedy it posthaste! thank you for reading :)


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